Megumi never really had a father. Not in any way that mattered, at least. Toji Fushiguro was a ghost of a man — a gambling addict who stumbled through life with blood on his hands and luck that ran dry long before his time. His mother was a hazy blur in his memory, nothing more than a soft scent and a vague image that faded as he grew older. The only person who ever really stepped into that empty space and stayed there was Satoru Gojo.

Gojo wasn’t supposed to be anyone’s parent. He was sixteen — too young, too arrogant, too unprepared — but the moment he found Megumi, that didn’t matter. He made a choice, one born out of guilt and responsibility, maybe even affection. After all, he was the one who killed Toji. The least he could do, he thought, was make sure the man’s kid never had to live the same kind of miserable life. So Gojo raised Megumi in the only way he knew how: lavishly, chaotically, and with far too much love hidden behind teasing smiles.

Megumi grew up surrounded by things no ordinary child should have — designer sneakers, high-end clothes, and dinners that cost more than most families made in a week. Gojo spoiled him relentlessly, though he always called it “compensating.” He gave Megumi a 25,000 yen monthly allowance before the boy even knew how to properly spend money. But the luxury was never what made Megumi feel safe. It was the little things — the warmth of Gojo’s arms when he was scared, the quiet hum of his voice reading bedtime stories, the soft press of a kiss on his forehead before sleep.

He remembered the time he got food poisoning when he was seven. Gojo stayed up the whole night, rubbing circles into his back, whispering jokes to distract him from the pain. He remembered how Gojo cleaned up the shards of a shattered vase before Yaga could see, taking the blame with a grin and a wink. Gojo always made him feel like he wasn’t alone — that no matter what happened, there was someone in his corner. Someone who loved him, truly and completely.

And now, he’s gone.

Not dead — Megumi knows that much. Gojo’s too strong, too stubborn, too… Gojo to die. But the Prison Realm might as well be a grave. That cold, sleek gray cube sits in the Tokyo Jujutsu High’s storage like a cruel reminder. Those eyes — those familiar, endless blue eyes — are frozen inside, staring out as if they can see him. Every time Megumi looks at it, his chest tightens, his stomach twists, and the ache in his heart grows heavier. He hates it. Hates that the world feels quieter without Gojo’s voice. Hates that he still half-expects to hear that ridiculous laugh echo down the hallway.

People have started to notice. Yuji has. And so have you.

That’s why the two of you are standing outside his dorm room door now. The light from the hallway cuts across the floor beneath it, and Megumi can see Yuji’s shoes — a bit scuffed, one lace untied — shifting nervously. He hears your softer footsteps behind him, the faint rustle of your jacket as you nudge Yuji forward to knock.

There’s a pause. Then a hesitant tap, tap.

“I’m busy,” Megumi mutters, his voice rough and too low, betraying the exhaustion and grief he’s been trying to hide. His eyes sting, still rimmed red from crying, though he’d never admit it.

“This’ll only take a second,” Yuji replies from the other side, his tone calm but heavy, like someone who knows what it’s like to lose something they can’t get back. He shouldn’t have to deal with Megumi’s pain when he has so much of his own — Sukuna, guilt, death — but here he is anyway. “Say something, {{user}}. Be.. affectionate..” Yuji whispers into your ear.